


Touching you is enough

by Monna99



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 03:24:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20500076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monna99/pseuds/Monna99
Summary: War teaches men all sorts of things.





	Touching you is enough

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Whitman poem. 
> 
> So I'm very late to this party but still came dressed to the nines! Here's my contribution to that amazing pairing known as Speirton that stole my heart. It's a little awkward to write fiction about actual people, but not insulting I hope.

“You’re determined to make me tie you to the damned bed.”

Lipton’s eyes shot open, hand reaching for his gun before he fully registered the words — and the person who’d spoken them. He sagged back onto the floor, hand releasing his grip on his pistol as Speirs swam into focus. 

“Sir?” he croaked out.

Speirs’s lips twisted in displeasure as he sat back on his haunches, glaring at his first sergeant. Any other man might have been unnerved at finding an angry Speirs leaning over him with a rifle balanced across his knees, but — and maybe it was just whatever the hell Doc Roe had scrounged up to ease the fire in his chest — this was the safest Lipton had felt since his drop into the war. He was still cold though. “Did I or did I not order you to take the bed, First Sergeant?”

Lipton opened his mouth to speak but a coughing fit wracked his frame, leaving him gasping and choking, the soft tissue of his throat feeling as though it were tearing apart. 

Speirs cursed and stood in one sharp movement. “Private Luz!” he called. “Luz!”

The coughs finally subsided but his throat was still too raw to say anything and that was a shame because he really wanted to tell the captain not to disturb the men. If they weren’t out on patrol they were probably getting some much-needed rest. Too late. He could hear voices raised in confusion and then the pounding of combat boots on the stairs. The door flew open to reveal Luz, hair at all angles and creases on his face, like maybe he’d fallen asleep at his desk. 

“Sir?” he asked breathlessly, several men at his back. “Sergeant Lip okay?”

Spears turned and marched toward the door. Sick as he was, Lipton couldn’t help but admire the grace and economy of motion, neither of which did anything to conceal the tension of savagery just beneath the skin. “As a matter of fact,” Spears replied curtly, “he is not.” He shifted aside, letting more of the light penetrate the room and Luz peered inside.

“Ah, jeez, sir,” he grumbled. “What the hell are you doing on the floor?”

“I was sleeping before you all interrupted me,” he muttered without thinking. It took a moment for him to register the surprised stillness above him. “Sir,” he added. 

Luz seemed to develop a sudden coughing fit himself but he got control of it quickly enough when Spears turned that tiger gaze on him. 

“Get him to my quarters and on the bed,” the captain ordered tightly, “And, Private Luz?” he added silkily. 

“Ah, yes, sir?” Luz asked, freezing in place as he knelt by Lipton’s side.

“He damn well better be there when I get back, or there’ll be hell to pay.” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Ten-hut!” 

Spears left without a backward glance and the men — he thought they were Shifty, Popeye and Liebgott, but things were swimming again — filed in. Everything went gray for a bit after that, though he could make out some snatches of conversation. 

“Like a hen with one chick,” someone marveled, followed by muffled laughter.

“Shut it, you idiot!” was the hissed reply. “What the hell would you do if he overheard?”

“Come on, Luz, he’s gone. How’s he gonna overhear anything? He’s not actually the boogeyman, you know.”

There was softness beneath him. Too soft. Was he in bed? He couldn’t be in bed, his men needed him. He shoved the heavy covers over his chest back and heard a heavy thump. “Oww, shit. Take it easy, Sarge.”

“Yeah, Sarge, you’re gonna have to stay put or we’re gonna be shot and I didn’t survive Bastogne just to get shot by that crazy son of a—”

“How’s he doing?”

The men jerked to attention and, as out of it as he still was, Lipton picked up on the spike of tension and fear. “Sir,” he muttered, opening his eyes and rubbing at his temples, “please stop terrorizing the men.” He ignored the look of wide-eyed disbelief that Shifty threw his way and pushed himself up on one elbow, glancing around. He winced at the realization that he was lying on Captain Speirs’s bed. “Sir, I’ll just,” he began, swinging his legs off to the side. He didn’t make it.

Speirs was next to him before he could blink and shoved him back none-too-gently. Lip bounced once on the mattress and blinked up at Speirs in surprise. The captain shook out the blankets he carried and tossed them over Lip. “You will stay here. That’s an order, First Sergeant. And,” he added leaning much too close. So close Lip could feel the warmth of his breath, the heat of his body, “if you disobey me one more time,” the words were a low growl, “I will make these men personally responsible. They will be punished in your stead. Have I made myself clear?”

“What? No, sir, that’s not—”

Speirs didn’t bother to stick around for his objections. He turned sharply and once again disappeared. 

Lip pushed back on his covers — it was too warm now — and all four men practically leaped on him.

“No!”

“Wait a goddamn minute, Sarge!”

“Please, sir, by all that is holy, stay put! He’ll shoot us if you move, sir! You know he will.”

“I don’t wanna get shot, sir!”

Lip stopped fighting and let the men pile on too many blankets as another coughing fit shook him. He was starting to sweat under there, yet he still felt cold. Was that good or bad? He vaguely remembered the doc saying something about a fever, though it had been at the height of his fever so the memory was pretty hazy. He transferred his gaze from the ceiling to the boys as they gathered around him. “Go on,” he said, “get out of here.” They looked at one another, uncertain, until Luz waved them away and spread out a thin blanket for himself on the floor next to the bed. That’s when Lip really put his foot down. “Luz, get yourself downstairs. Kip down on the couch,” he ordered hoarsely. 

Luz lit up a smoke instead and snorted. “Yeah? And I’ll just calmly explain to Captain Speirs that I left you alone, will I, sir?”

“I’ll stay put, you have my word,” he whispered, throat too raw to manage an octave higher.

Luz leaned against the side of the bed, the flare of his cigarette making Lip crave his own. He couldn’t find it in himself to wish he’d never started smoking, not when he could fool himself into believing it calmed his nerves. His fingers twitched and he scrubbed them over his mouth, thinking of home. The images didn't come so easily anymore, like they were dreams he'd had that were fading on waking. Life in Huntington was as far removed from life in Europe as the moon from the Earth, and the tighter he tried to hold on, the more easily those memories slipped through his fingers.

The force of his own coughing woke him, pain flaring in his chest so that his very ribs seemed a breath away from rattling loose. He turned his head not a second too soon, coughing up phlegm into the bucket Gene held out to him. "Doc," he managed hoarsely, "when'd you get here?"

Roe pulled the bucket away and eased him onto his back, face set and unhappy. _Am I dying?_ Lip wondered, not particular concerned. Everything was distant, removed. Even the pain. Anyway, despite the bout of coughing, he was actually feeling better. His head felt clearer and he wasn’t so cold.

“I’m fine, Doc,” he murmured. Roe ignored him, leaning down over him, uncomfortably close, and pressed his head against Lip's chest. Lip stared down at that dark head. "Gene?" 

"Take deep breaths for me, Sergeant," Eugene said, ear to his lungs. 

Lip obeyed. And the explosion of coughing that burst free dislodged the doc whose expression became alarmed. Lip only caught a glimpse before he blacked out.

The next time he blinked his eyes open, he saw that Luz had put out all the lights except for a bedside candle that cheerfully flung its rays to pierce the darkness. Doc was gone and the room was quiet again. Lip peered over the side of the bed and, sure enough, Luz lay on his side, neck at an awkward angle, breathing deeply, quietly. 

“George,” he said firmly, not wanting to alarm the other man. “Wake up.”

Luz blinked awake immediately, sitting up and grabbing for his gun. Lip thought about how long it would be before any of them woke without reaching for a weapon first. Assuming any of them made it out alive. The way command was throwing assignments their way, sometimes he wondered. 

Luz’s eyes met his and he breathed out a sigh of relief. “Jeez, Sarge, trying to scare the living daylights out of me or what?” He leaned back against the nightstand, staring more closely at Lip. “How you feeling?”

Lip nodded. “Was Doc Roe here, or did I …?”

“Mmm?” Luz’s jaw cracked on a yawn and he snorted. “Yeah, Doc was here. You scared the daylights out of him too. He said you’re just kicking the bad stuff now, though. You’re gonna be fine, but life’s gonna suck a big one for the next few weeks.”

“How is that a new development?” They shared a grin and Luz reached for his jacket, pulling out a smoke and lighting it while Lip focused on keeping his eyes open. He’d been sleeping so much, it was a wonder he wasn’t brimming with energy, but he could feel the waves of drowsiness cresting over his head. 

“Private Luz.”

Luz cursed as he fumbled with his smoke and scrambled to his feet. “Sir,” he saluted smartly. 

Lip’s eyelids snapped open, and he sat up, every molecule in his body rebelling at not standing properly to confer the requisite — and deserved — respect. Somehow he didn’t think Speirs would appreciate his making the effort. He saluted from his partly recumbent position, realizing he hadn’t heard the man climb the stairs. He was like a cat, all sleekness and predatory instincts. 

“You’re dismissed, Luz. Find yourself a more comfortable place to sleep.”

“Yes, sir.” George left with one last glance back and a quick salute to Lip. 

Lip didn’t watch him go, his gaze was trained on Speirs as it always was now whenever the man was in his vicinity. It was like he was holding his breath, waiting for the next improbable, impossible thing he would do. What Speirs did do was remove his helmet and run a weary hand through his hair.

“How are you feeling, sir?” he asked, voice nearly breaking with the strain it put on his throat.

Speirs shot him a narrow-eyed look. “Like I don’t have pneumonia.”

Lip flushed, feeling the humiliation of that through to his very bones. He didn’t deserve a battlefield promotion. Officers did not take days off, they did not get sick. Captain Winters had never once let a ridiculous thing like a fever interfere with his duties, and he simply couldn’t picture Speirs suffering a paltry human indignity like a runny nose or a wheezing cough. “Sir, I can do my duty,” he said, forcing an even tone and decidedly throwing off the blankets. He stood, momentary dizziness making him sway on his feet. It was hard to even know which way was up when that darkness swamped him and he reached out, hand finding the bedpost to steady himself. He managed not to fall on his backside. Surely that was improvement. He spotted his boots near the foot of the bed and grabbed for them.

And promptly dropped them when a weight that could only be Speirs dropped onto the mattress next to him. “Sorry, sir, I’ll get out of your hair right away. You must be tired.”

“Carwood.” It was said softly, gently. 

That was it. His name. Coming from the lips of the man whom he would have bet didn’t know what it was. Just his name and he let himself fall back on the bed. The old mattress sagged in the middle and pushed them together, shoulders brushing, then sides and hips, until they were connected down to their knees. Somehow it felt like an easing together, as though they’d arranged it, that line of fire that stopped his shivers and dried his mouth. 

“That wasn’t a dig, Carwood.” Speirs shook his head, seemingly unperturbed by their closeness. “You know I’m not good with words.”

Not true, Speirs was good with words when he wanted to be, he just so very rarely wanted to be. “I know I’ve been shirking my duties, sir--”

“Don’t be stupid.”

Lipton winced internally and Speirs blew out an exasperated breath. “Sergeant Lipton, you are one of the finest soldiers with whom I have ever served. Your men admire and respect you. I’m pretty sure if I ever let anything happen to you, they’d mutiny.”

Lip stiffened. “Sir, the men would never--” He stopped at the wry grin on the man’s lips as he turned toward Lip, their placement putting their faces mere inches apart. 

“And I wouldn’t blame them.” Lip’s mouth shut with an audible click. “As such,” he continued, “for the good of all of Easy, stay the hell in bed, Sergeant. Show me you have faith in my ability to lead these men.”

“Sir,” Lipton protested, momentarily forgetting himself and gripping the captain’s shoulder, “I have every confidence in your abilities. You are a fine officer, equal to Captain Winters in every respect.”

Speirs’s lips quirked, though Lipton didn’t think he was imagining the stiffening of his muscles. “High praise,” he said lightly, and pushed himself to his feet. “Get in bed, Sergeant Lipton.” 

_What did I say?_ he wondered. Lip replayed his words but couldn’t find where he’d gone wrong. Speirs himself admired Winters, no way could he have taken offense to being compared to the man. Then he glanced up and his thoughts shattered, burst like shells laying wreckage to his mind as Speirs promptly set to undressing. Lip’s breath caught in his throat, not from a coughing fit this time and his heart began to hammer so loud he wondered that the captain couldn’t hear it. The sound of buckles being undone rang like knells in the silence. There was something happening that he couldn’t quite understand, something new, fragile, burgeoning in his chest, too fast, too much. The closest he had come to the feeling before was the bubble of happiness that would expand within him whenever Winters had smiled at him, gentle and kind and understanding, and spoken approval in that crooning voice of his. But that was normal, he told himself. He wasn’t the only one who’d admired him. Men pushed themselves to please him, to gain a smile and quiet “good job”. He’d seen even then-Lieutenant Nixon stare and hang on Captain Winters’s every word. Captain Winters was simply a great man, it was natural to admire him. This felt nothing like that.

“--ton?”

Lip snapped out of his daze. “Sir?”

Spears glanced up and grinned, that sweet curve of lips at such odds with the stories told of him. Not that Lip cared about those stories any. He only cared about Speirs. That is to say, he backtracked hastily, that he only cared that Speirs was a great leader to Easy Company. He cleared his throat and wiped his damp palms on his pants. 

“I asked if you have a blanket to spare in that cocoon.”

“Ah, yes, sir,” he said, unaccountably breathless. In the rather feeble light of the candle, he could make out that Speirs had simply removed his jacket and unstrapped his ammo, setting his weapon within grabbing distance. Lip licked dry lips, admitting to himself that the admiration he’d held for Winters had nothing to do with the scorching heat that suffused him now, like he would ignite, like he would burn up with it. He took a deep breath, wincing at the pull on strained tissue, and held out a blanket from the pile, then watched, uncomprehending, as Speirs laid it out over the one Luz had already put down. “Uh, sir?”

Speirs unhooked his canteen belt and stretched out on the blankets, groaning appreciatively. “Say what you will, but it’s still better than Bastogne. Put the candle out, would you?” he asked Lip.

“Sir, you can’t,” he said hoarsely, shame battering his conscience. “Please, let me take the floor.” As captain, Speirs should occupy the only bed in the room, not a lower officer. The fact that it was Lip’s weakness that relegated the man to the floor made the guilt flare brighter. 

He heard Speirs sigh and a moment later felt his hand grip Lip’s wrist, fingers pressed to flesh, squeezing. The fire came back, stronger, and Lip curled his hands into fists, resisting the sudden urge to reach for Speirs. He flung his other hand out clumsily and put the light out, wanting to hide from this unknown that was about to consume him. But the sudden darkness was worse. So much worse. There was intimacy in darkness, danger. And he couldn’t stop himself from closing his eyes to savor that heat that radiated from that small point of contact, nor could he stop himself from shifting his arm and catching Speirs’s hand just as the other man was pulling away. Their fingers caught, held, interlocked and Carwood knew he gave too much away with his shaky exhale. Gave everything away. He waited for the inevitable fallout, the disgust, the fury. 

But no fallout came. Speirs’s fingers tightened around his own. “Sleep, Sergeant,” he commanded softly. 

Lipton’s eyes were closed before Speirs finished speaking.


End file.
